


A friend is all I need

by brothebro



Series: Witcher!Jaskier fics [11]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Aromantic Jaskier | Dandelion, Asexual Jaskier | Dandelion, Body Image, Conversations, Demisexual Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Friendship, Gen, Geralt Typical Angst, Geralt is a good dad, Human Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Platonic Relationships, Prompt Fic, Scars, Self-Esteem Issues, Two friends being friends, Vignette, Will add tags as I update, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, Young Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, no beta we die like stregobor fucking should have, reverse au, societal self worth issues, witchertober 2020
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:55:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 14,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26758345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brothebro/pseuds/brothebro
Summary: He walks in total darkness and cursed inwardly at his dimmed human senses. The only thing he misses from the time he was a witcher --the white wolf of Rivia, hah what a joke-- is his enhanced sight; he’s never seen the beautiful starry summer sky in the same way, since the incident that made him human.As expected, he finds Jaskier sitting on the cold sand, his legs reaching, barely, the calm waves of the sea. He has a small lamp with him --thankfully-- so Geralt spots him pretty easily.A collection of Vignettes featuring the friendship of the Witcher in disguise Jaskier and the Witcher turned human Geralt.Prompt fills for Witchertober.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher!Jaskier fics [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1735504
Comments: 215
Kudos: 93





	1. The Coast

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and Welcome! I hope you will enjoy this series as much as I do writing it.  
> Each chapter will be around 500 words and a scene from the lives of Jaskier and Geralt.
> 
> Based on bamf-jaskier 's witchertober 2020 prompt list

**The Coast**

Geralt is worried about Jaskier; the man’s left the tavern in the middle of the performance, using his classic excuse ‘I don’t feel very well, apologies friends’ he uses when something soured his mood unexpectedly. 

They’ve been friends for so many years now, that Geralt knows exactly where to find him. The Keraki town, they’ve found themselves in this time, has a beautiful beachfront, and that’s where the masked bard will be. He’s certain.

It’s rather cold for a mid summer’s night, the ocean breeze apparently at fault for this. He removes his sturdy leather boots and feels the cold moist sand between his toes. It feels good, grounding. 

He walks in total darkness and cursed inwardly at his dimmed human senses. The only thing he misses from the time he was a witcher -- _ the white wolf of Rivia, hah what a joke _ \-- is his enhanced sight; he’s never seen the beautiful starry summer sky in the same way, since the incident that made him human. 

As expected, he finds Jaskier sitting on the cold sand, his legs reaching, barely, the calm waves of the sea. He has a small lamp with him --thankfully-- so Geralt spots him pretty easily. 

“Hey,” Geralt says reluctantly, “wanna talk?”

Jaskier seems startled for a moment and turns to face him, his simple black mask always in place, covering the top half of his face. He hums thoughtfully and chews on his lower lip; a telltale sign that he’s conflicted and evaluating how to formulate his response. 

“I guess I’m tired,” he says after a long pause, both of them gazing at the starlit sky, “I just- I guess- ugh… why is this so hard!”

“Take your time. I’m here for you.”

Jaskier takes a deep breath and turns to face Geralt smiling slightly -- _ it’s a sad smile, fuck.  _ “I overheard a woman claiming she bedded me and that she saw what’s under the mask. You know I don’t do these things. I don’t  _ like  _ these things,” he sighs, “I’m tired, Geralt. I’m tired of people making assumptions about me, I’m tired of them lying about me because I’m such a goddamn mystery that they  _ need  _ to unveil.” He pauses and gazes at the sky, releasing all the air in his lungs.

“I’m sorry she made you feel this way,” Geralt mumbles, “You deserve better, Jaskier.”

“I- I just want to be me, I just want people to see me -- the real me. But I can’t, can I? Not as long as I wear this stupid mask. But I can’t fucking remove the blasted thing because if I do-- Ugh. Forget it Geralt. Please.”

Geralt knows there’s a nasty burn scar under the thick unbending fabric of the mask. He’s seen glimpses of it in the years he’s known the poet. He also knows that it’s a touchy matter. And that’s why he doesn’t press. If Jaskier ever wants to open up to him he will. Until then he’ll wait.

“Alright,” he responds, “It’s alright.”


	2. Oxenfurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He remembers a contract for an Elemental in a dark cave. He remembers finding the remains of a witcher not of his school. He remembers being low on Cat and finding a potion of the dead witcher’s belongings. After that, he remembers nothing._
> 
> -brief description of sickness and sickness related weight loss

**Oxenfurt**

Geralt shifts and flutters his eyes open, the blurry surroundings slowly shifting into place. A dark shiny wooden ceiling. He turns his head towards the light. A big iron laced window allows a cold dim light into the room. Terracotta rooftops can be seen through the small sections of the window’s glasses. 

Everything seems a bit off, but he can’t exactly place the reason why. It could be the absence of vibrant colours or it could be the absence of migraine inciting sounds he’s so used to. Maybe it’s both. Maybe it’s something more.

He hears the door creak slightly and supports his weight with his elbows and forearms to raise his head slightly so that he can see who’s entered this strange little room. He hears a soft gasp and then sees the masked bard scuffling towards him. 

“Geralt,” he hears him say, his voice wavering, “Geralt, you’re finally awake! Goodness, how are you feeling? Does anything hurt? I thought you’d die on me, friend. You ran a fever for so many days! I thought you’d melt into nothingness right here in this bed!”

“I-” he rasps, his mouth as dry as the Nazair desert, “Water.” 

Jaskier reaches for a waterskin, that now Geralt realizes has been within grasp for him all this time, and brings it to his mouth. “Drink,” he says, the softness in his voice replaced by urgency. 

Geralt takes the waterskin from the bard’s calloused hands and downs it in one go. “Fuck,”  _ That was very much needed,  _ “What happened, Jaskier? Where are we?” 

“Oxenfurt,” the bard responds, “My apartment. But that’s not important, my friend. Tell me, how are you feeling? You were out for nigh a month!”

“A month,” Geralt blinks. He remembers a contract for an Elemental in a dark cave. He remembers finding the remains of a witcher not of his school. He remembers being low on Cat and finding a potion of the dead witcher’s belongings. After that, he remembers nothing. 

“Geralt?”

“I feel fine,” he rushes to answer, “Nothing hurts.” His stomach decides to join the conversation and growl like a rabid wolf. “Just hungry.”

“I have gruel ready,” Jaskier responds with a small smile, “And a bit of bread.”

“That sounds good.”

He still can’t hear much -- it’s as if Oxenfurt is deadly silent -- and that unnerves him. Maybe his senses need a bit of time to adjust after a month of sleep. Surely that’s it. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier says and there’s this nervousness in the tone of his voice that Geralt doesn’t like. He’s missing something, he’s sure. Jaskier draws in a deep breath and continues, “Don’t freak out, please,”  _ Oh no,  _ “I think - I think the potion you drank turned you back into a human.”

“What.”

“Your eyes are hazel and your roots are coming in a wonderful auburn colour.”

Geralt hums, “That explains the muted senses.” 

“You’re oddly fine with it.”

“Honestly, I’m still processing it.”

“That’s… fair,” Jaskier pauses and chews on his bottom lip, gathering his thoughts, “I’m sorry,” he finally says.

“Sorry for what?”

“For not stopping you from drinking this potion, for not coming to get you sooner.”

“It’s not your fault I decided on being a dumbass in the middle of a hunt, Jaskier. I should know better and not drink dubious quality potions looted off a corpse.” Geralt cracks a reassuring smile at his friend. 

“You really should,” Jaskier huffs out a laugh and moves to help him get up from the bed, “Do you feel strong enough to walk or should I carry you?”

Geralt rolls his eyes and gets up without help, which leads to him almost falling face-first on the colourful carpet.  _ His balance is off too? _ “Shit.”

“You fool,” Jaskier helps him up with an arm, “You lost so much weight, no wonder your balance is off.”

  
He did? He stares at his limbs; they are half the width they used to be.  _ Ah. Another thing to get used to, it seems.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading<3   
> this witchertober sure is fun!


	3. Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _  
> The Redanian woods allow little light to reach the earth. Thick foliage and tall barks that reach the sky protect the forest from the unrelenting drizzle that falls almost constantly._
> 
> _They've been walking the narrow road to Trelogor for more than half a day now, and Geralt's human feet feel sore and ache from the blisters formulated from hours upon hours of walking. He glances at Roach, who trots next to them, carrying their packs and livelihoods.  
> _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -loss of identity  
> -self-worth issues

**Woods**

The Redanian woods allow little light to reach the earth. Thick foliage and tall barks that reach the sky protect the forest from the unrelenting drizzle that falls almost constantly. 

They've been walking the narrow road to Trelogor for more than half a day now, and Geralt's human feet feel sore and ache from the blisters formulated from hours upon hours of walking. He glances at Roach, who trots next to them, carrying their packs and livelihoods. 

At some point, Jaskier must have noticed Geralt's discomfort (he really thought he did a good job hiding it) because he asks: "Aren't you tired? We can take a break if you like, or you can ride Roach for the rest of the day. I'm sure she won't mind."

"'M fine," Geralt grits out. He's fine, he can walk. It's not like that becoming human must mean he's resigned to a life of feebleness and weakness. 

_ He has to cultivate the strength needed to be able to lift his swords for fuck's sake. To be able to wield them. _

"No, you're not fine, Geralt," Jaskier sighs, "there's no reason to sport blisters for weeks, you know. There's no need to push yourself to the limit."

"But you are walking everywhere! Why can't I?"

"Well, that's a very good question, my friend. I suppose it comes down to – I don't know – perhaps the fact that I didn't go through a life-threatening experience last winter that rendered me completely incapacitated for a month? Or it might be that I walk everywhere and have done so for more than a decade. Who knows?” 

As much Geralt hates to admit it, the poet has a point. 

“I just want to go back to the way I was,” he admits. 

“What, back to being a witcher?” 

“No,” Geralt rushes to answer, his eyes meeting the eye-shaped holes of Jaskier’s mask. He doesn’t want to go back to a life of contract-hatred-pay-contract. The winter months he spent in the Oxenfurt academy together with his friend showed him a life so different from what he is used to. The arts, the conversations, the fucking human decency… It’s selfish… but he doesn’t want to trade them with his mutations; the Path. But he doesn’t want to feel weak and helpless, either. “I want to be able to protect us on the road. And I can’t do that if I can’t lift the damn sword, or --hell-- tire after a bit of physical exercise!” 

“Alright.”

“Alright?”

“Have you considered opting for a weapon that fits your physique better? Shortsword? Dagger? Crossbow? At least until you manage to work with your beloved swords. And worry not, I may not look it but I’m skilled with a range of weapons. My point is, you can count on me until you get back on your feet. Won’t let anything happen to you.” Jaskier pats the front of his doublet. _Is he hiding weapons in his clothes?_ _And if yes, since when? Always?_

Geralt… hasn’t considered changing his weapon of choice. A dagger won’t even look suspicious on him, dressed as a bard as he is (by Jaskier’s insistence). Moreover, it’s easy to conceal --apparently-- and if wielded correctly can save a life. 

He stares at the thick canopy that lies above them, a drop of water falling here and there on his skin. He hums thoughtfully, “You’re right, Jaskier.”

_ He can start being kinder to himself. Start slowly but surely the path to getting his life back. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you very much for reading <3 
> 
> This October is going well so far. Sure, my job allows very little time for writing, hence the existence of this fic and the delay of the others but it's alright.   
> With this fic I felt the need to explore and address different issues than usual and the vignette format helps a lot with it. 
> 
> Of course, as you might have noticed, I cannot stray far from the Bamf!Jaskier trope but this fic isn't so much about that. Instead, I want to focus on friends helping friends surpass their personal demons; be it self-worth issues or a secret that's eating them alive. 
> 
> Anyhow, rambling over. I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I'm eager to hear your thoughts.


	4. Kaer Morhen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> -Geralt faces his fears concerning the return to his home and family

**Kaer Morhen**

The wolf keep stands tall in the valley at the hollow of a ravine, protected from the weather and the scrutinizing gaze of humanity. 

Geralt stops at his tracks, taking in the cold crisp air of the Blue Mountains and the imposing view of stone upon stone and dangerous cliffs. 

“This was a mistake,” he grunts. 

“ _ Geraaalt, _ ” Jaskier whines, “We scaled a whole bloody mountain to see your family! This wasn’t a  _ mistake! _ You can’t say that  _ now,  _ right outside your home!” 

Geralt feels his stomach swoop and twist, millions upon millions of thoughts bombarding him. Fuck. He hasn’t seen his brothers and Vesemir for more than a year. And last time they met he’s been a witcher; strong and dangerous, the polar opposite of his current situation. Sure, he’d managed to get a fragment of his strength back this past year but he resembles almost nothing the witcher he once was. 

What if they don’t recognise him? What if they do and they don’t accept him anymore? What will he do then? He can’t very well bloody leave when the snows are so close, when the descend to Yspaden will take him three days.

“Hey,” Jaskier places a hand on Geralt’s shoulder, “It’s going to be alright.  _ They  _ are going to be alright. And if they are not…” he cracks his knuckles, “I’ll bloody fight each and every one of them.”

Geralt snorts a laugh. His friend always knows what to say to ground him, to chase away all the insecurities that plague him. 

“You can’t fight three witchers, Jaskier,” he says, “But I appreciate the sentiment.” 

“Oh, believe me, I can and I will,” he hears him murmur under his breath and Geralt rolls his eyes, taking a step forward to Kaer Morhen’s grand gate. 

It’s Vesemir that greets them behind the steel bars of the gate. 

“Julian, what are you doing here?” his old mentor raises a quizzical brow, “And still going on and about wearing court-jester attire, I see.” 

_ Does he know Jaskier?  _

“You wound me, Ves! I’ll have you know this is the latest trend --not that you’d know fashion if it bit you in the arse... Alas, this is not the time for pleasantries; Geralt and I thought to pop in for a quick three-month visit, you see, and we’re currently freezing our balls off, so please open the gate already.”

Geralt watches as Vesemir’s gaze moves from Jaskier to him, and he tenses visibly. But when Vesemir’s eyes light up in recognition, and a small smile forms in his lips, Geralt feels that breathing might be viable again and releases the air pent up in his lungs. 

“Welcome home, my boy,” his mentor smiles and moves to open the portcullis, “Lambert and Eskel will be happy to see you.”

“See,” Jaskier leans in towards Geralt and whispers, “Everything is fine, you big worrywart.”

“Everything is fine,” Geralt echoes and braces himself for the storm of questions sure to come. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again for reading (and commenting, if you chose to)   
> <3   
> Vesemir knowing witcher!Jaskier is always a favourite trope of mine that I will never tire of.


	5. Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cw:  
> -unresolved trauma concerning fire and loss  
> -burn scars  
> -grief  
> -blaming oneself for an accident

**Fire**

Everything has gone to shit in a matter of seconds. A lit candle that fell onto a greasy floor. A barmaid that got startled and dropped a jug of oil used for cooking. 

The flames spread like wildfire, licking the wooden floor, the walls, the furniture. 

Terrified patrons rush to exit the condemned building, pushing each other, yelling and screaming. They hit one another. They squeeze through the door and the small windows.

But one man stays frozen in place. A bard clutching his lute like a lifeline. 

Geralt hears the ragged breathing of his friend whose gaze is fixed on the dancing flames. Fuck. That’s bad. They must leave before the building comes crashing down on them. Before the smoke enters their lungs and breathing becomes impossible.

Geralt yanks his friend’s arm, tries to push him towards the door but he won’t budge. “Jaskier,” he yells in frantic urgency, “Jaskier, please! Snap out of it, we have to run!”

The poet’s breath hitches at the sound of his name and Geralt pleads again and pulls his arm. At the fourth try, Jaskier finally moves. 

“Come, quick,” Geralt supports him as much as he can, the tall bard looming over him, still lost at his own nightmares. 

They make it out safe and sound, coughing up the ash they involuntarily inhaled. Geralt goes to fetch Roach and prompts his friend to ride the mare behind him, till the village is nought but a small dot on the horizon.

Jaskier remains silent even after they stop to camp -- not lighting a campfire this time -- brushing his digits occasionally at the seams of his mask, his breathing laboured as he does so. 

Geralt knows that there isn't a single comforting thing he can tell his friend, not a sentence, not an action he can do; he can only wait it off. Until he's ready. Offer a hug if the other wants to. 

They stay like this for hours into the night until Jaskier gets up from his bedroll and yanks the mask off his face, the fabric soaked with salty tears. 

Geralt averts his gaze, but not before he catches a shadowy glimpse of darker splotches of ruined skin, spreading from Jaskier’s right ear, over to his cheek and forehead, reaching the bridge of his nose, and on top of that several small spots are scattered on the left part of his face like petals flying on the wind. 

“I couldn't save them-  _ Icouldn’tsavethem, _ ” Jaskier chants between sobs, “I couldn't save my family. I should have - I should have- I’m a bloody farce, Geralt. A farce. I shouldn’t even be alive and yet here I am.”

“I am sorry,” Geralt whispers, eyes fixed on the grassy ground, “Loss is never easy. Nor is it fair. But you being alive is a wonderful thing, my friend. You are a good person. And I know that I can’t even begin to imagine what you’ve gone through, but- know that I’m here for you. Alright?”

“I wear the mask to forget,” another sob escapes the poet’s lips, “to hide the ugly marks of my failure. But it doesn’t work, does it? Not when I’m reminded at every lit candle, every hearth." 

Geralt scuttles closer to his friend and places an arm around his back. Jaskier lets him, leaning in the embrace, his chest heaving with every sob. 

Jaskier looks at him, meets his gaze for the first time in twelve years. Red sclera and blue irises, Geralt barely makes out under the dim moonlight. He silently wonders if the flames are to blame, or, if this is the result of another unrelated incident. 

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier repeats, digits brushing at the burned skin.

“Hmmm. Let it out. I’m here for you.”

“Thank you, Geralt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you very much for reading and commenting <3  
> this chapter was very hard for me to write but I'm ok with how it turned out.  
> Grief and blame is a touchy matter and I know firsthand how damaging not processing your grief can be. 
> 
> nevertheless, I hope you liked reading this chapter and if you opted to skip it, it's completely understandable.


	6. Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> -arrow wounds  
> -heavy injury that could be fatal

**Found**

It’s a sunny spring day, the warmth of the sun’s gentle rays passes through the sparse foliage of the trees, gently caressing the pale skin of the two travellers. Geralt convinced Jaskier earlier this day to take a shortcut through the Kaedweni woods he knows better than the lines of his palms. And now, here they are, nature surrounding them from all directions.

It’s peaceful, travelling with Jaskier. The tall bard will babble about everything and nothing, spew lyrics upon lyrics, enough to fill the library of Oxenfurt twice over, sing and compose melodies, and Geralt will hum in acquiescence, ask a question or two and listen. 

_ He likes listening.  _

So it comes to him as a surprise when Jaskier asks to take his mask off --out of the blue-- when they’re miles away from civilization. It’s been a few weeks since the fire incident and while his friend’s calmed down significantly, the old wound on his soul was freshly reopened and it will take a while for it to mend. Those first few days after that night, the bard would wake up crying, and there was nothing Geralt could do to drive away the nightmares.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I understand if you’d prefer me wearing it,” Jaskier adds when Geralt fails to answer immediately. 

“Huh- what- no. It’s fine. Do what’s more comfortable for  _ you." _

“Alright, cool, alright. I just wanted to check in with you,” Jaskier says and unties the thin fabric stips that keep the mask in place. 

_ It wasn’t Geralt’s imagination; he really has red sclera and blue eyes. Are his pupils slit like a cat’s?  _

Oh, well, that is hardly important. 

“It feels nice, feeling the breeze on my skin,” Jaskier inhales deeply, gaze fixed on the thin streams of light escaping through the budding green leaves of the oak trees. 

Suddenly, Geralt’s hearing catches the swooshing sound of arrows slicing through air, but before he can register it as that he sees his friend’s eyes grow impossibly wide, terror prominent in them. 

Geralt frowns. Did those arrows land somewhere close? And why does his head suddenly feel heavier? Odd. 

“Geralt!” Jaskier shrieks, “Geralt stay with me, please.”

“What are you talking about, where would I go?” his brows furrow quizzically, “Jaskier, why are you looking at me like I’m about to keel over and die?”

“Because you are, Geralt! You have two arrows sticking out of the back of your head!” the bard yells. 

“I feel fine, you’re being dramatic,” he counters, but something inside him makes him brush his fingers through his hair at the back of his head.  _ Shit.  _ That is undeniably an arrow shaft. His digits move to the nape of his neck. And another one. Of course. He brings them forward, only the barest of blood smeared on them. 

_ It really doesn't hurt in the slightest. _

Jaskier looks like he’s about to faint. 

“I’m sure it looks worse than it is,” Geralt says, smiling, and without much thought pulls the first arrow from his neck. He’s surprised that he barely feels it exiting his body. 

_ Hmmm. Must be the adrenaline. _

“Wha-What are you doing you fool? Do you have a deathwish? Oh, no you’re gonna bleed out on me, aren’t you?  _ Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck _ !” Jaskier cries out and with lightning-fast movements, he goes to examine the wound. His hand lingers on the supposed indentation and Geralt hears the sigh of relief escaping his friend’s lips. “What in Melitele’s goodness? Geralt.

“Yes?”

“I think you might be immortal.”

“Hmmm.” Geralt removes the second arrow from his pierced cranium. “Hmmm. Did it close as well?”

“Y-yes…”

“Good.” 

That’s not something he asked for but… It could come in handy, couldn’t it? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi there! and oops! I seem to have made Geralt immortal! Was this planned you may ask? It was. There is a plan. Yep. Totally. 
> 
> thank you for reading kudoing and commenting and see you tomorrow! 
> 
> xoxo  
> Bro


	7. Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snowball fights and conversations

**Snow**

Geralt’s boots crunch through the fresh layer of snow. It’s pleasantly cold, his breath forming little clouds before him. The citizens of Oxenfurt, unused to the white blanket of cold, are out marvelling at the sight, playing with the moldable snow. Snowball fights, snow angels, snowmen, pop up everywhere around him.

A snowball finds its mark on his head, knocking him forward, his bright blue hat falling from his head releasing his two coloured hair. It’s strange witnessing the red replacing the white, fighting it until it’s won over, proving that he’s human forever now. Never to return to the Path. That’s why he hides the shameful roots under a hat.

_ He’s not sure he likes this… situation. The Path was the one constant thing in his life, it’s all he’s ever known. What will he do now for a living? _

“Oops! Sorry, Geralt,” Jaskier chuckles, gathering the next fistful of snow and forming it to a spherical shape, "Your hair's grown out a lot."

Geralt grimaces and kicks a small mountain of snow towards his friend, dusting, as a result, his red coat with crystalline powder. "I know," he grits out between clenched teeth, "I thought to cut it but… But it makes it all the more real." 

"You can keep it long, if it's better for you," Jaskier says, hauling the snowball to a random direction. 

"I… don't know what the point is. The white is going to fall out sooner or later."

"There's something else troubling you, is it not?"

There is. But he's not sure he wants to open this particular can of worms  _ now _ . With his mutations gone --with his strength gone--, there's no way he can continue with his livelihood, his only source of income. And he can count on his friend and on his spare coin for so much before he becomes a burden.

"Come to the Academy with me," Jaskier offers, "see my lectures, hell attend Valdo's lectures if you'd like. They might help get things into perspective. And who knows, you might even find something you like."

Geralt huffs out a laugh.  _ Is his friend a mind reader or is he that predictable?  _

“Do you know a good barber?” Geralt asks, throwing a fistful of snow directly on Jaskier’s masked face. 

“I know the most excellent one,” he flicks his brown mop of hair with a hand, “as is evidence, my illustrious mane.”

“You have the most average haircut known to man.”

“You brute! What, is your usual headband and grime combo a better look?” The poet shrieks, “I’ll have you know, Anetta is excellent at her job.”

“Hmm,” Geralt smiles at his friend’s dramatics, “Can you take me to her?”

“Of course, my rude friend. I believe she’s working right now.”

“Lead the way, then.”

“Ay, ay captain Geralt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to update this yesterday lol   
> well, no matter the chapter is here now! 
> 
> Hope yall liked it <3


	8. Chamomile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier catches a cold

**Chamomile**

Jaskier has been sneezing all morning now. His unnatural eyes are rimmed red and his breathing rugged. Even his voice sounds hoarse; devoid of its usual clearness. To everyone who is witnessing the repetition of sneeze-curse word-sneeze-profanity --this everyone being Geralt and Roach-- it's apparent that the bard has caught a cold. 

"Get on Roach," Geralt says after the tenth sneeze-curse sequence. 

Jaskier scrunches his nose trying to fight the sneeze that is building up in his nostrils. "I-I don't --tchu! godsfuckingdamnit-- want to over encumber the poor -a-a-ah- girl," he pinches his nose with two fingers. 

"You're sick," Geralt crosses his arms, the tone of his voice lecturing, "You must allow your body to rest."

"I'mb not sick. I don't get sick, Geralt."

"You've clearly caught a cold."

"Impossible," the bard scoffs and sneezes again, "I'mve never ever been sick in my life."

Geralt blinks a couple of times in disbelief. What is the fool saying? How lucky has the bastard been up till now?

"Everybody gets sick," he tries to reason, "Even back when I was a Witcher, I'd get a runny nose or a fever from time to time. Speaking of, you look a bit  _ shivery. _ "

"I don't know why my muscles do that, to be honest."

"You're probably feverish." Geralt signals Roach to stop. It's as good as any place for a temporary camp, a big clearing with a sparse assortment of trees, soft grass carpeting the ground. "We're stopping here for today," he announces. 

"What can I do to make it stop, Geralt," Jaskier whines, "Will Swallow work?"

"Swallow?!" Geralt shrieks in disbelief. He wants to drink a witcher potion to subsidize the cold? Gods help him, his friend has lost it. He knows damn well those potions aren't meant for humans. 

"No?" Jaskier tilts his head to the side, confused. 

"No," Geralt affirms, "chamomile tea will help with the sore throat I'm assuming you have, and with your… nose situation. You'll be fine with some rest."

He moves for Roach's saddlebags and unfastens the one holding the herbs he's gathered and prepared for selling. Amongst the various alchemical components lies a small leather sack full of chamomile blossoms.  _ This should be enough for a big brew of tea. _

He prepares the warm beverage in silence, in the small campfire Jaskier managed to build -- in record time -- when Geralt was busy searching his, quite unorganized, bag for the healing herb. 

Jaskier reluctantly takes the wooden cup Geralt hands him and sniffs at the steamy liquid inside, “Canm’t smbell a thing. Looks like water.”

Geralt rolls his eyes at his friend’s antics, “I assure you, it’s medicine. Try it.”

Geralt watches as Jaskier brings the cup to his lips, and drinks the tea agonisingly slowly. He arches his brows in trying to relay the question:  _ is it good? How are you feeling? _ Even though he knows that the tea isn’t a miracle maker and it will probably take some time for the effects to show. 

“Warm,” Jaskier purrs, “It feels soothing. Tastes nice.” 

“I can’t believe you’ve never had chamomile tea before.”

“Mmm. Only oil,” the bard says, “for massaging sore muscles.”

“Yeah, no. Don’t try to drink the oil.”

“I wouldn’t,” he yawns, his eyelids dropping slowly “‘M not stupid.”

“Rest, old friend.”

“Mmmm. Sounds good.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boi I'm one day behind   
> Have to catch up soon lest I wanna give up on this challenge
> 
> Geralt is a big old himbo and so is Jaskier. No brain cells here, only accidental secrets. 
> 
> As always, thank you very much for reading <3


	9. Destiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier visit Cintra

**Destiny**

Geralt hasn’t thought of his child surprise since he became human, a year and a half ago. The thought startles him and he surmises it’s because they are nearing the Cintran borders. The royal heir should be barely one and a half years old-- much like he is, in a way. A cold shiver runs down his spine, as he realises Jaskier’s course is set to pass through the great citadel of lions. 

Fuck. 

“We’re going to Cintra,” Jaskier confirms his fears, “It’s Pavetta’s birthday and she asked for me personally.”

“I can’t go to Cintra, Jaskier. Calanthe will have my head,” Geralt’s brows knit together with worry. 

“Ah, but my friend, you are forgetting this tiny little detail of your newly acquired immortality. Calanthe can’t harm a hair on your head; not that I’d allow her to try anyway.” 

Yes, he might be of the undying sort, at the moment, but he still worries that everything could go sideways real quick. After all, his friend is but human and the mad queen could have his head on a noose instead of Geralt’s. And that’s far worse, in his opinion. 

“And besides,” Jaskier continues, oblivious to Geralt’s internal struggle, “No offence, but you don’t look at all like you did when she last saw you; and I doubt she’d recognise you by voice alone. Aren’t you curious to meet your kid-surprise?”

The ex witcher, turned botanist and occasional mandolin player, presses his lips into a thin line. Jaskier has a point. And he can feel destiny calling to him to meet the royal kid, its strings made a rope and pulling him closer with every step he takes in the direction of Cintra. 

“I want to meet them,” he admits, “But I won’t claim them. They need their parents still.”

Jaskier smiles brightly, “Then I have excellent news for you, my friend; you’re to support me with my songs.”

“ _ Fantastic.” _

“I know, right? We are going to woo the masses! Ballads will be written in our names as our performance will ascend and surpass the heavens themselves!”

Geralt chokes down the unease and the fear that bubble in his stomach and joins his friend in the 'performance of a lifetime'. Calanthe doesn’t even attend the small feast; Pavetta, Duny and their small daughter are the only attendants of the celebration. He’s thankful for it. 

Pavetta smiles knowingly at him, and once she calls for a break and for the desert to arrive, she places the small ashen haired baby on the carpet. Geralt watches with curiosity as the kid walks, wobbling left and right, to his feet and raises her little hands in the air, waiting for him to lift her up. He shoots Pavetta a look and she nods, smiling.

He carefully lifts the baby to his arms. Big green eyes look at him. She giggles. “Dada!,” she says and bops his nose with a small hand, “dada! Dada!” 

“Aw, she likes you, Geralt,” Pavetta coos, and Geralt breaks into a cold sweat.  _ She knows. Of course, she knows.  _ “Her name is Ciri.”

“Ciri,” he echoes and the small girl giggles again. “I’m not here to claim her,” he rushes to explain. 

“I know,” Pavetta smiles widely, “You’ll be an excellent father to her once we’re gone,” she whispers, green eyes dark with a deep sadness. 

_ Geralt can’t help but think of those ominous words, and so sad eyes, for months to come.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey look! I'm catching up slowly slowly!   
> Ciri is adorbs and she recognises Geralt, as does Pavetta
> 
> You bet Geralt will be back every year to visit Ciri! 
> 
> Hope ya liked this chapter <3   
> thanks for reading!


	10. Teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vampires! A fight! Violence!

**Teeth**

There is something utterly wrong in this little Povissi town they found themselves in; the people seem wary of strangers, more than the usual, their conversations hushed and hurried. Geralt’s nigh eighty year experience as a witcher tells him that this is the look of people suffering under a monster’s fleets of fancy. 

And he’s right. 

As they beeline towards the closest tavern they pass a noticeboard; it’s chock full of ageing pieces of paper describing missing persons, and some even, seeings of a humanoid monster fleeing through windows in the middle of the night. 

Vampires. There’s no doubt they’re to blame for this town’s restlessness. And by the looks of it, there hasn’t been a witcher in the vicinity for many months. Or perhaps somebody passed through and met an untimely death. Who knows. 

He ought to do something about this situation. He knows he can. He might not be a mutant anymore, his reflexes and senses might not be above those of an average human but accidents have proved time and time again his unwavering, lingering, immortality and he’s confident he can deal with the monster expertly. 

And he does. He sneaks out of Jaskier’s and his shared room, in the town’s only and very decrepit inn, in the middle of the night. Thank fuck, Jaskier sleeps through the whole awkward ordeal of descending and falling -- breaking a leg in the process-- from the room’s only window. The leg heals instantly, similar to all the other times he injured himself accidentally. 

Thanks to his bottomless luck, he catches the vampire escaping from one particularly fancy stone manor --no doubt belonging to the mayor or a high ranked official-- a young girl hanging unconscious from its clawed talons. 

It proves to be a difficult task, the vampire of the Katakan sort; powerful and smart creature. But he manages to kill the thing, cutting its head straight off its shoulders. And there’s no scratch on the girl either. The only catch is that he had to let the thing bite his midriff through and through with its long and dangerous sharp teeth in order to have it still for a moment and swing his shortsword at the right angle for maximum efficiency. 

Well, no matter. It’s dead and all is well. Yes, he has the ugly bat-like head of a creature attached on his body at the moment, but he will deal with it… somehow. 

And then comes Jaskier, running towards him in full speed, eyes filled with fury, not even wearing his mask, even though half the village is awake at this point by the unholy screeches the creature released in its dying breath. 

“What the fuck, Geralt? What. The. Fuck.”

“Relax, I’m fine.”

“You should stop putting yourself at danger, you - you martyr! A Katakan, Geralt? Seriously?”

“I can’t fucking die Jaskier! I might as well use it for something good!” he yells, the severed head hanging uncomfortably from the spot beneath his left ribs. 

Jaskier sighs audibly in defeat, “Fine, fine, it’s not like there’s a witcher here to deal with things like  _ that _ ,” he gestures at the head and the body lying a few meters away from it. Geralt tries and fails to understand what his friend means by ‘there’s a witcher here’.  _ Did someone arrive and he didn’t notice?  _ They are in Griffin territory, after all.

“I’ll be more careful next time,” Geralt says, pulling the head embedded on his side. It doesn’t budge. “Fuck. Help me? The teeth are stuck.”

“Fucking cock. Stay still, please,” Jaskier grabs the Katakan’s mouth with both hands and with an enormous display of strength tears it off Geralt’s skin, breaking it in two. Geralt picks at the few teeth that remain pierced on his side. 

“Thanks.”

“Don’t do it again, promise me. You don’t know what can actually kill you, and I’d really  _ really  _ loathe to find that out. Alright?”

He has a point.

Geralt rolls his eyes, “ _ Fine _ , I promise,” he agrees begrudgingly. 

“Let’s go collect the contract, while we’re at it. It’d be a waste not to do so.”

“Hmmm. Good idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I caught up yay!!!!! Now I can write Innkeeper Geralt without thinking of this challenge! hurray! 
> 
> hope ya liked it <3


	11. Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt learns music

**Hands**

Geralt has always liked music, ever since he was a small child and happened upon a caravan of travelling minstrels with his mother. Before Kaer Morhen. Before the trials and the loss. 

Music has always managed to put his racing, swirling, thoughts in order. He admires the people who create it.  _ He wishes he could as well.  _ After all, there are tunes and melodies in his mind, lyrics… Well, not exactly lyrics but emotions, moods he wants to explore and share with the world but- But he doesn’t have an outlet. The rugged life of a witcher forbade creative endeavours such as this one. It’s always contract-monster-money. 

So when the man that is to be his best friend enters his life, the man of music and lyrics, of poetics and dramatics, a lute and a hum always present, he welcomes him. 

It helps that Jaskier --as if he knows-- avoids using sounds that grate on Geralt’s sensitive hearing. His melodies are calming, soothing, grounding. 

It takes years, a decade really, to admit to his friend that he wants to learn how to play an instrument, that he has sounds dancing in his head, sounds that bubble and boil and want to escape at each passing minute. 

Becoming a human might be a blessing or a curse, depending on the point of view. For Geralt, it’s both. 

The loss of his enhanced senses, the diminishing strength; a curse.

Not drawing in ill attention to himself, the ability to do things he never thought possible before; a blessing. 

Such a blessing, it seems, is attending classes on music in Oxenfurt’s Academy of Arts, by Jaskier’s encouragement. 

He finds out quickly that deft fingers are needed to produce ethereal sounds. The lute… needs a lot of agility and flexibility of the hands, a skill Geralt has never actively worked on; his fingers clumsy and unwilling to bend at the desired positions. 

“Perhaps, you need to start with a different instrument,” Jaskier says to him one day after a lecture on rhythm and composition, “At least until your fingers can stretch and reach all the strings of the lute.”

Geralt is frustrated, his hands are unwilling to reach the furthermost courses of strings on the seven-course lute that Jaskier lent him. “Perhaps,” he sighs in defeat, “Are there smaller lutes?” 

“There are lute variants, yes,” Jaskier assumes his teaching stance, back arched and hands strictly held behind his back, “There’s the Toussaint mandolino, or mandolin as the western countries call it. It has four courses of strings and it is rather small in size. And then there is the Nazair baglamas, a three-course lute-like instrument. It’s quite tiny and its sound is shrill, yet pleasant. You could try one of these two. I know that Essi owns a mandolin, and for the right price, she’d be willing to part with it.” 

“Mandolin, huh. It doesn’t sound bad.”

“Oh, believe me, it’s lovely.”

Geralt hums. “Is she here, this winter?” 

“Who? Essi?” Geralt nods, “She always spends the winters in Oxenfurt, after this whole… Vizima plague ordeal. Let’s go find her, shall we?”

“Thank you, friend.”

“Don’t even mention it. I’m happy to help.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and thank you for reading <3 
> 
> In case anyone is wondering what the [mandolin](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mandolin) and the [baglamas](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baglamas) are, you can find info in the links provided. I myself own a baglama and it's absolutely adorable. I'm quite shite at music, I must admit, but I like strumming it and jamming like i know what i'm doing :3 
> 
> ~~Nazair is now Greece, I don't make the rules :P Well, actually I do.~~
> 
> Also, how much more blatantly Southeastern European can I get with this fic? Wait and find out.
> 
> <3 see ya tomorrow!


	12. Baths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What the title says

**Baths**

Autumn is reaching its long spindly fingers upon the Continent. The winds get colder and harsher and the rain falls bountiful in thick curtains. It comes to no surprise when the winds stop abruptly, when the sky is dark as night overcast with black clouds, when electricity charges the air, prickling at the skin, that a storm is coming.

“Fuck,” Geralt curses when the first thick drops of rain, fall on his face, “Fuck,” he repeats a minute later when the rain falls so much, so closely interwoven, it obscures his vision. “Get on Roach, Jaskier,” he says, offering a hand to his friend, “We’re so close to the next village, we can make it before the thunders start.” 

“I can run,” Jaskier shouts so that Geralt may hear him amidst the cacophony of water meeting the vegetation. 

“This is not the time to be stubborn,” Geralt yells, and tries to pull his friend onto the horse.

Jaskier clicks his tongue and hoisters himself on the saddle behind Geralt. 

Roach is a horse of strong breed, meant to carry a fully armoured witcher and his baggage for long periods of time. But even she tires if two people ride on her back. 

Luckily, the settlement is very close and the poor girl doesn’t suffer.

They enter the village’s only tavern drenched to the bone in a mixture of rainwater mud and yellowing leaves. A thunder echoes behind the closed door. 

“We made it,” Jaskier sighs, removing wet and sticky strands of hair from his mask. “A room and a bath?” he asks the innkeeper, who’s looking at them, a mix of fear and relief painted on her face. 

“You’re in luck sir bards,” the woman replies, “We have a room left and a big communal bathroom to clean up,” her gaze runs them from head to toe, her lips pursing in disgust when it reaches the puddle of mud on their feet, “Immediately, I reckon.” 

“ _ Communal _ ?” Jaskier gasps, and Geralt is sure that if he could see his eyes beneath the mask they’d be wide open with fear. “Is there a way to bring a barrel of water up in the room, madam? Even cold water would do.” 

She shakes her head, “Room’s too small. And what exactly might the problem be with the shared bathroom, sir bard?”

“Nothing, nothing. Communal, shared, right, well, alright.”

“Will you be alright, Jaskier?” Geralt whispers, impossibly low. 

His friend is a man of privacy and even Geralt hasn’t seen him without his doublet. Not even in the hottest days of summer, when it’s so unbearably warm Geralt wishes he could relieve himself from his skin. Even then, Jaskier is fully clothed. 

Geralt suspects --and his hunches are rarely wrong-- that the poet is heavily scarred beneath the layers of expensive fabric. Much like his face is. 

“I- I have no choice now, do I?” Jaskier turns to meet his gaze, “Promise you won’t judge, alright?”

“ _ Jaskier _ ,” Geralt scolds, “I, of all people, would never. I’ll keep watch and won’t let anyone else inside while you bathe. Sounds good?”

Jaskier hums and nods, “Alright.” 

Turns out Geralt’s suspicions were indeed true and his friend carries hundreds of marks on his skin. Some look much like the burn patterns that adorn his face and some look as if he’s survived a month in a pit full of ghouls, or a week in a gryphon’s nest. 

He silently wonders what kind of life led to this result. He never voices his questions out of respect. If Jaskier wants to, he’ll tell him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt? Having a brain cell? Less likely than you think. 
> 
> But he's still a good friend. 
> 
> Hope ya liked this lil chapter that plagued me and I dreaded writing for days. :D


	13. Portals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yenn!!!!

**Portals**

  
  


It’s a night much like any other. Winter is nearing and the day is short so they have to stop earlier to make camp. It’s alright, though, this year they have arranged to spend the winter in Oxenfurt. Jaskier will teach for the semester and Geralt... Geralt isn't sure what he's going to do.

He could work in the stables, with all horses restricted inside they will surely need more stablehands. And it's an activity he enjoys very much. Getting paid to tend to horses is a bonus, really.

  
Jaskier is sharpening a pair of daggers, Geral found out, a week ago when they were ambushed by bandits, hides in secret pockets inside his doublet. Geralt is preparing a stew using the rabbit he caught earlier in the day and the sound of boiling water and the metal sharpening, perfecting against the whetstone, make for comforting nostalgic sounds.

  
  


The food is almost ready and Geralt smiles to himself as he tries it. It needs a smidge of pepper and it will be perfect.

  
  


Everything is calm and peaceful but then Jaskier gets up alert, eyes darting left and right, his daggers ready at each hand.

  
  


"What's wro-" Geralt utters but Jaskier sushes him by bringing a finger in front of his lips.

  
  


And then he feels it too. The silence. Nothing aside from the boiling water can be heard. It's as if the whole world fell dead in the last minute.

  
  


The little hair on Geralt's nape of the neck rise, signalling danger.

  
  


For a second he feels as if all air has abandoned him. He feels as if breathing is a task made impossible.

  
  


And then she arrives through a portal; a woman dressed in a black and white expensive gown, smelling of lilac and gooseberries. A woman, anxious, her gaze drifting between them, brows furrowed in confusion.

  
  


"I was sure... " she mutters to herself, "... but it can't be." She locks a pair of brilliant amethyst eyes with Geralt, "You," she says pointing at him.

  
  


"Me?" Geralt tilts his head lightly to the side, a hand hovering above his steel shortsword.

  
  


"What do you want, witch?" Jaskier growls but makes no step forward, stays rooted in place.

  
  


"A pair of bards," the woman laughs and she sounds almost manic, "The magical signature is a pair of bards, what the fuck!?"

  
  


"Excuse me, lady, but who the fuck are you and why the fuck are you here?" Jaskier hisses between clenched teeth.

  
  


"Right, I suppose introductions are in order," she drawls, "I'm Yennefer of Vengerberg and I've been tracking your magical signature for months. Months! I thought I'd find a djinn, not two... whatever you two are."

  
  


"Sorry to disappoint," Geralt grits out and she snorts a laugh.

  
  


"Mind if I sit here with you, for a bit?" she asks and pats the dust that's accumulated of her long skirt, raising a small dust cloud in the process. "I did come all the way here from Rinde, and you _are_ magic, _somehow_."

  
  


Geralt shrugs, "As long as you promise not to do something foolish, I'm fine with it."

  
  


"I'm not going to kill you, if that's what you mean."

  
  


Geralt just hums in response and Jaskier falls into a fit of laughter, "I'd love to see you try," he says after he's calmed down enough to speak.

  
  


She cocks an eyebrow, but does not question further.

  
  


_An interesting person._ Perhaps she'll be able to help find out a bit more about Geralt's... undying situation. _For the right price._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello! I did it I managed to write a short chapter today even though I was idea starved and it shows. I really wanted to introduce Yennefer for a while now.   
> Let's see what this story will bring. Let's see,,,,
> 
> Thank you for reading <3   
> See ya tomorrow!


	14. Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer part 2

**Eyes**

Ever since that night Yennefer stumbled upon their camp on accident, she’s been showing up more frequently. She claims it’s Geralt’s magic signature that is confusing her, but Geralt has seen how she looks at his friend with those beautiful amethyst eyes of hers.

Jaskier, while being well versed in writing about romance, remains clueless to the witch’s advances.

Well, eventually he’ll turn her down, like everybody else, and she’ll stop showing up. It’s a pity, really. Geralt likes the sorceress, she’s full of dry wit and smart quips and teasing comebacks. She knows a lot of the world, conversations with her fleeting from one subject to another in an artful dance.

They’ve arrived in Oxenfurt, not an hour prior, and beelined to their favourite tavern. And there she is, Yennefer of Vengerberg, gesturing at them to join her on her table.

“Yennefer,” Geralt greets with a small nod.

“Geralt,” her violet eyes meet his own hazel, and then with an elegant tilt she turns to face the poet, “Jaskier, I see you’re back to wearing the mask.”

Jaskier regards her for a few seconds, lips pursed in confusion. “To what do we owe the pleasure? Are you in search for a djinn and you confused us for it again?” he seats himself at the chair opposite of hers.

“Believe it or not, _bard_ , today I’m not here because of that.”

Geralt cocks an eyebrow. Is this the day she’ll finally find out that his friend is not interested, in well, anyone, and disappear from their lives forever?

“I’m here because our dearest Geralt is a big mystery,” she continues, “and that’s exciting.”

“Oh?” Geralt and Jaskier say in unison, glancing at each other.

“I know you’re not cursed,” she takes a sip from her cup of red wine, “I know you’re not exactly human. And I know that your quite excessive chaos is not because of that.”

“What are you planning to do with this information, Yennefer?” Geralt asks calmly, before his friend does something stupid in his name.

“Oh, you two are awfully secretive, aren’t you? Well, no matter, I promise I bear no ill will towards any of you. It’s just that…”

“You’re curious,” Jaskier cuts in, “By Melitele, this is just plain curiosity isn’t it?”

“I’m curious,” she affirms, “And concerned. As it happens, I’ve come to like you both. It’s a miracle really, that none of my… colleagues, haven’t laid their slimy paws upon you yet. Therefore, I offer a fair trade.”

“Elaborate,” Geralt prompts.

“Your secret in exchange for a magical masking artefact. To make you untraceable.”

“A glamour of sorts?” Jaskier asks in a hushed voice and she nods.

“Sounds fair,” Geralt smiles at her and glances at Jaskier who just shrugs. “We have a deal.”

“Well? Shall we go somewhere more private? I have a room upstairs.”

They follow Yennefer into a big luxurious room, obviously intended as a suite to accommodate nobles.

“I can’t die,” Geralt says once they’ve made sure no one is eavesdropping.

“Pardon?” Yennefer furrows her brows, “You’re undead?”

“Hmmm. Of sorts. Been decapitated, struck by arrows, bitten by vampires and all that in the past season.”

“You’re forgetting when that bandit cut out your heart, before I relieved him from his morose head,” Jaskier provides.

“True.”

“Now, that is interesting,” Yennefer says, her eyes shining with a million questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi all!!!!!!!!! i hope you enjoyed this lil chapter! I'm posting a tad late coz my friend has her birthday and she treated us ttoday  
> anyhow in case u cant tell I'm posting this a bit tipsy   
> :))))))  
> (I did write it before I went out with my friend no worries ;) ) 
> 
> xoxo  
> Bro


	15. Father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt assumes responsibility

**Father**

The citadel of Cintra stands strong and rich. Paved streets lead to tall multistoried stone buildings, decorated with all sorts of colours and plants. Geralt takes a moment to listen to the sounds of the city, the sounds of bustling busy life.

He takes a deep breath.

Ciri’s fourth birthday is today. Like every year, he’ll visit, bringing gifts for the little girl and music for her celebration. It’s one of his favourite days of the year.  _ One of the two days he gets to see his daughter.  _

He feels the corners of his mouth tug upwards. He can’t wait for Ciri to see what he got her, for her big green eyes to shine with so much joy. 

“Are you ready?” Jaskier nudges him with an elbow, “Eh, you doting dad, you?” 

Geralt snorts a laugh, “If you would have asked me  _ that  _ five years ago, I would have punched you in the gut, Jaskier.”

“How time changes a man,” Jaskier grins at him.

“How it does, indeed…” He takes a deep breath and adjusts the parcel he’s holding with both hands, “Let’s go, friend.”

Like every year, they’re allowed entrance through the kitchen door on the ground floor and led by a trusted servant directly on princess Pavetta’s personal chambers. 

There Pavetta awaits with Ciri, Duny nowhere in sight this time. 

“Papa Gerry! I missed you!” Ciri runs towards him and hugs his legs. She grew taller again, since the last time he saw her. He smiles fondly at her as she moves to hug Jaskier’s legs as well, “Uncle Jas-Jas! I like your new mask. It has a feather! Pretty!” she giggles. 

“I know, I picked it myself off a gryphon,” Jaskier jokes and laughs when her eyes become wide as plates. 

_ He did no such thing. _ He bought it off a merchant two streets away, yesterday.

“We brought you a present, cub,” Geralt places the parcel on the ground and Ciri rushes to open it, struggling with the teal bow that holds the wrapping together. 

“Geralt, Jaskier, welcome,” Pavetta greets, a sad smile painted on her face, “I need to discuss something with you both.”

By the look on her face, it seems that they will hear unpleasant news; her lips are pressed into a thin line, and her eyes weary and tired but alert. 

“Your majesty,” Jaskier says in a low voice, “what seems to be plaguing your mind?” 

“I don’t have many people I can trust,” she says in a hushed voice, “but I am certain I can trust you both with- with,” her voice breaks, and she takes a deep breath, “I need you to take Ciri out of here and never come back.” 

“Yay!” Ciri exclaims -- oblivious to the conversation unfolding before her -- having managed to remove the wrapping from the package, revealing a doll knight, “Immediately, I love him,” she gushes, hugging the doll tightly. 

Geralt glances at her briefly, and then turns his attention back to Pavetta, “What is wrong your majesty?” 

“I have reasons to believe that my husband harbours ill intentions towards Ciri and me. I trust you, Geralt. I trust you, and I want you to take care of her. Be her father like destiny intended.” 

Geralt sees the desperation in the woman’s eyes. The pain and the betrayal. There’s nothing in her gaze that would make her lie. 

“I will keep her safe,” he says in the end.

He makes a promise to never let Duny use her for whatever twisted plan he’s concocted. He makes a promise, he seals with a small kiss on Ciri’s crown, to be the best father she could have wished for. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone and thank you for reading!  
> I'm weak for dadralt and well, I thought I've messed with canon so much, it won't hurt to mess with it again.   
> So now we have an itty bitty Ciri joining the party!
> 
> see ya tomorrow!


	16. Gallop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ambush! I love them ambushes

**Gallop**

Jaskier wakes him in the dead of night, shaking him lightly. His blue irises shine unnaturally, under the low moonlight, his face schooled in a serious expression. Geralt parts his lips to speak but Jaskier brings a big hand to his mouth, shushing him. 

‘What’s wrong,’ Geralt mouths, tugging Ciri closer to his chest; the little girl curled up in a little ball, cocooned with a thick fur, sleeping blissfully. 

Jaskier gestures to him that they must go. He points at his ears and then makes the number five with his hand. Geralt is no fool, years travelling with the poet he found out bits and pieces about his non-human traits and abilities. But he’s yet to figure out what exactly his friend is. (he’s already scratched off vampire and fae off his list) 

‘Five people?’ Geralt mouths, tilting his head slightly in question. Jaskier nods. ‘Bandits?’ he asks and Jaskier shrugs up to his ears, brows pressed together and lips into a thin line.

Geralt lifts Ciri on his arms, carefully, while Jaskier shoves their measly possessions to Roach’s and Jaskier’s brand new stallion, Pesagus’s, saddlebags, not even bothering to fold their bedrolls. 

It’s not the first time they had to break camp in the middle of the night, but it’s the first time since Ciri joined them. 

Fuck. Geralt hopes all this moving won’t wake her. 

Roach, the beautiful brilliant girl that she is, lowers herself so Geralt can sit on her saddle while holding Ciri on his arms. He’ll have to remember to treat her to a nice juicy apple once they are safe, far away from the threat.

“Papa?” Ciri rubs her eyes with her little hands. 

“We’re going for a walk,” he whispers calmly, “Go back to sleep, cub.”

“Mmmm. I love Roachie,” she says and yawns, curling deeper onto Geralt’s chest. He smiles fondly at her and ushers Roach to a gallop. 

Not a minute later, five men, armed to the teeth fire bolts and arrows towards them, approaching fast, atop mighty steeds. 

“Fuck,” Geralt grits outs, three bolds having found their mark on his back, the force of the impact, making him lose his balance. He tightens his grip on Roach’s reins, fingers burying deep in the hard leather, enough to draw blood. 

He won’t fall. Not now. Not with Ciri, sleeping blissfully in front of him. 

He glances at Jaskier who’s riding next to him, he has a knife ready to throw at one hand, the other guiding Pegasus on the narrow path. 

“Fuckfuckfuck,” Geralt curses as more bolts and arrows cut through the air, making Roach and Pegasus whinny nervously. He hears a loud thud, and turning briefly to see what happened, he sees that one of the men, lies motionless on the ground, a knife embedded in his skull and his horse running rampant. 

“Bloody cock, serves you right!” he hears Jaskier growl, so much anger colouring his voice it scares him. 

The next few minutes pass in a blur. He is sure they are still being chased; their pursuers relentless, of the fearless kind. Geralt’s eyes are fixed on the path before them, his hand cradling his daughter protectively. 

“Geralt,” he hears his friend yell his name, “GERALT!” 

“What?” he yells back, head turning to face his friend. Ciri shakes on his chest, but does not wake. Fortunately. 

“They are gone. We’re safe. Let’s stop and let me take those things off your back before Ciri sees them.”

He ushers Roach into a slow trot, voicing the question in his mind, “How?”

“What do you mean, ‘how’? I killed them?” 

Geralt has witnessed Jaskier’s combat skills to a degree, a handful of times before; the bard has obviously had some training with the blade; his movements fluid, the weapon an extension of himself. But to take down five dangerous,  _ whatever those men were,  _ by himself? Using only a bunch of throwing knives? 

“Impressive,” Geralt smiles. 

“Honestly, Geralt,” Jaskier huffs, “I know you wolves take pride on your methods and all, but how much do you underestimate our way of training?” he shakes his head disappointed and yanks a couple of bolts off Geralt’s back. 

“I don’t underestimate neither your skills nor your training, Jaskier. It’s clear you had a very good instructor.”

“Oh yeah, a right bastard he was --used to run us rugged every day-- but a really skilled one,” Jaskier chuckles and Geralt is left to wonder what kind of upbringing his friend had. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!!!! thanks for reading this chapter <3   
> Geralt has a certification from Oxenfurt that states that he's one oblivious bastard. 
> 
> anyhow, hope ya liked it and see ya tomorrow!


	17. Throat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eskel and Geralt go hunting in the Kaedweni mountains.
> 
> warnings:  
> -graphic description of pain and choking  
> -a bit of angst

**Throat**

Wintering at Kaer Morhen with the addition of a four-year-old that can never sit still, and more often than not, is the secondary cause of some sort of mischief (the prime cause will, always and forever, be the unbeatable duo that is Lambert and Jaskier) can get tiring really fast.

So, as the routine of running after not one, but  _ three _ , children to fix whatever mess they made –Geralt really hopes that Lambert will not sniff out where he hid the bombs – settles, so does Geralt feel the need to escape and take a break from this whole – just whole.

He almost screams with excitement when Eskel asks him to accompany him to a trip in the woods, with the pretext of hunting rabbits.

_ It will be just like old times. _

Geralt dons an old armour that used to belong to a now long-dead witcher; his old one too big for his human body. He reaches for a thick woollen cloak to shield himself from the cold, because even though it can’t hurt him it still feels nice, staying warm, and he joins Eskel outside Kaer Morhen’s thick walls.

They fall into a comfortable pattern of silent communication, covering as much woodland area as they can, searching for the fickle creatures that reside there. It doesn’t take them long to reach one of the hundred small lakes that riddle the tall Kaedweni mountains.

“There’s someone there,” Eskel says, pointing at the lake’s direction.

“Huh. I’ll go check,” Geralt responds and stalks forward, as silent as the thick blanket of snow allows him to, his bow and arrow ready at his hands.

“Geralt,” Eskel frowns, “Don’t put yourself in danger.”

Geralt shoots him an incredulous look and continues walking.

And there on the shore of the small body of water is the witch.

“Yennefer,” he gasps and she flinches, whips around quickly meeting his eyes. She’s holding an amphora in her hands, and old looking thing, worn by, perhaps, centuries of time laying in unuse.

“Geralt? What are you doing here?” she asks, clutching the amphora harder.  _ A Djinn’s vessel. She finally found one. _

He lowers his bow and signals to Eskel that everything is fine. “No,” he says, “What are  _ you, _ doing here Yen? This is my home.”

“Northern Kaedwen? Three days away from the closest village? I thought you lived in Oxenfurt,” she avoids his question.

“Everything alright?” Eskel emerges from the woods, startling the sorceress; Yennefer’s gaze flicks to the broad-shouldered witcher, eyes wide in surprise. The vessel slips from her hands and falls on the stone ground, shattering in a million pieces.

“Shit!” Yennefer curses between clenched teeth, trying to gather the small ceramic pieces from the ground. “And here I was--” her sentence is cut in half by the sky darkening. Furious winds blow in a circle, lifting the long fallen snow into a mock of a storm. 

“Fuck, that’s bad,” Geralt barely registers Eskel yelling, the winds so strong and so loud they make his ears hurt. 

Geralt feels a sharp pain on his throat, a pain of the like he hasn’t felt in years, since he became this immortal human-shaped thing. It hurts so much. So much. The pain flares and rise; tidal waves travelling through and clogging his throat. 

He can’t breathe. 

_ He can’t breathe. Someone. Please, someone help.  _

It’s too much, too sharp, too sudden. The snow dances mockingly around him in circles; it pierces his skin, freezes his bones. 

And then-- 

Nothing.

He blinks slowly, his vision coming back in pieces. He tries to breathe and he finds it no longer hurts-- his throat isn’t about to explode anymore.

“What was that?” he croaks, voice hoarse -- hoarser than usual.

“The djinn,” Yennefer says, dread and defeat leaking from her voice, “it attacked you. It attacked you and it left…“

“Are you alright, brother?” Eskel rushes to his side, offering an arm to lift himself up from the freezing ground he realises he’s fallen to during the attack. 

Geralt grunts in affirmation. “You didn’t utter a wish,” he says to Yennefer, the question hovering between them.

“I didn’t,” she responds, simply, “I could feel it; it was drawn to you, Geralt. Whatever magic you hold, the djinn wanted to possess.”

“Am I?” his eyes meet Eskel’s. 

Eskel shakes his head, “Still human.”

“It didn’t leave you, Geralt. The djinn didn’t leave you. Your chaos flared; it spiked, I could feel it,“ Yennefer scoots closer to him, a hand hovering above his throat, “I think… I think your chaos consumed it, made it its own.”

“Fuck.” He dreads to find out what side-effect this could have to his already peculiar situation. What’s next? He’ll be able to grant wishes?  _ He doesn’t want that.  _

“I suggest,” Yennefer says, her face schooled in a serious expression, her tone indicating that what she says is of utmost importance, “you tell me everything. This is dangerous shit, Geralt. So far I’ve respected your need for privacy, but this level of chaos… It’s not joking around. It could hurt people.” 

“I used to be a Witcher,” Geralt takes a deep breath and starts unfolding the events that led to this fateful day. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!   
> I'm a tad late today, as this chapter had a mind of its own and became almost twice the size of my word limit.  
> Anyhow, I hope you liked it :)  
> I hurt Geralt a bit in this one I'm afraid.   
> Let's see how this djinntuation will resolve itself, shall we?


	18. Potion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A monster fight and a conversation

**Potion**

"- I'm telling you, Coën has been crushing on you all winter," Yennefer says teasing the poet.

"Nahhh, impossible. He was just being friendly," Jaskier snorts a laugh, "It's one thing to fall for the mysterious masked bard and another for this… half-cooked visage," he gestures at his scars.

"Yennefer used to flirt with you, and you never noticed," Geralt blurts out, which earns him one of the sorceress's infamous death glares, "I mean--"

Jaskier's eyes go wide, head snapping to the sorceress who's walking beside him, "You did?" he almost shrieks in disbelief.

"I did," she confirms, "before I figured out you're not interested in romance. Is this so hard to believe, bard? You're a handsome man, no matter what you think of yourself."

"Uncle Jas-Jas is very pretty," Ciri chirps in, nodding seriously, "The shapes on his face look like flowers. And flowers are pretty!"

Geralt smiles fondly at his smart daughter and is delighted to see that his friends are too. 

"Look!" Ciri points at the sky, "look, a big birdy! It's shiny!" 

Geralt's gaze drifts upward to where his daughter is pointing. He narrows his eyes, trying to focus on the figure above them. 

Wait.

That's not a bird.

That's a --

"Wyvern," Jaskier breathes out and the creature's metallic screech sounds above them as it marks them as its targets, flapping its massive wings, preparing to dive. "Geralt, give me one of your swords, and toss me my potion holder; I'll need a Golden Oriole for this."

Geralt obliges and hands him one of his two shortswords, the words 'potion holder' and 'Golden Oriole' swirling in his mind, trying to find purchase with the image he has of the poet.

"Oh for fucks sake," Yennefer hisses and reaches for Roach's saddlebags that hold both Geralt's and Jaskier's things, as Pegasus now carries all of the witch's baggage. She quickly finds a small bag, Geralt is positive he's never seen before and takes out what's unmistakably a witcher's potion. "That it?" 

Jaskier nods and reaches a hand, "Quickly, it'll dive any second now." He takes the potion and he downs it, eyes becoming pitch black, dark veins surrounding them. 

"Fuck," is the only thing Geralt manages to utter, leaping to the side, holding Ciri tight against his chest as the beast screeches and dives. His eyes barely catch Yennefer lifting a magic shield around them, brows furrowed, concentrating on the impact to come.

Ciri, weeps, scared, her little fists clenched tight.

Jaskier yells at the wyvern, catching its attention and it swipes furiously its clawed talons to his direction. He rolls out of the way and slashes expertly at its throat. Geralt's heart is doing somersaults in his chest as the beast opens its massive maw, neck crooning and then dipping for the poet's head.

But Jaskier is quicker and pierces its head with a swift reposition of his sword.

It falls to the ground motionless with a thundering thud.

"You're a- you're a witcher," Geralt breaths out in disbelief as his eyes meet his friend's potioned gaze once more.

Jaskier blinks a couple of times, brows furrowing. His lips open with a 'pop' mouthing the phrase 'the fuck'.

"Told you he didn't know," Yennefer singsongs, "You owe me a good home cooked meal, bard."

"How didn't you know, Geralt. I never hid this from you. Bloody-- You've known me for almost fifteen years, Geralt!" 

"I knew you weren't human, but I didn't want to assume anything," Geralt says defensively.

Jaskier sighs, rubbing his temples, "I'm at a loss of words. Seriously, Geralt, you must have noticed my slow heartbeat when you were still a witcher. Or if not that, maybe the thought must have crossed your mind when you saw my scars and my eyes. And if I'm not mistaken you've seen my medallion plenty of times? I never take it off. Or that time with--"

"Alright, alright, I get it," Geralt huffs and sighs. Jaskier is right, the clues were right there and he refused to acknowledge them for far too long. "What school?"

"Make a guess."

"Could be a Cat or a Viper, given the number of hidden daggers on you," Geralt says and that earns him an incredulous look from both Yen and Jaskier.  _ Not that then. _ "A Griffin maybe? You've eyes similar to Coën," Jaskier shakes his head. "Manticore?" Another shake of the head. "Crane?!" 

"Do I bloody  _ look  _ like a  _ Crane _ , my friend? Do I have webbed fingers that I somehow failed to notice?"

"Bear."

“Bears like honey,” Ciri chirps in, eyes no longer filled with tears. 

Jaskier nods.

"Congratulations," Yennefer smirks, "He's 1.90 metres tall, Geralt. And built like a brick house. How on earth was Bear your last choice?"

Geralt shrugs because quite honestly he does not know the answer to that question.    
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi all!!! Thanks for reading and I hope you liked the big reveal lol :D  
> Geralt finally puts two and two together yay


	19. Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Borch makes an appearance

**Dragon**

It's been months since the last time they were ambushed. Needless to say, Geralt is starting to feel antsy on the road. It's not safe for Ciri, he knows this better than anyone and even with his friend's witchery power the danger is very real.

Not once but many times has he seen a wanted poster for his little girl on a noticeboard; even as far north as Aedirn. 

Pavetta's untimely death brought chaos to Cintra and there are rumours that Nilfgaard is gathering up an army. 

So they try to stick to long-forgotten roads and keep a low profile when they enter a town. So far they'd been lucky and not a single person has recognised the lost princess. well, and the fact that Yen got the little girl a glamour and now she looks as if she were Geralt's biological child.

Summer is nearing and they are in Poviss of all places because Jaskier has been personally requested to play at the wedding of a minor noble. The pay is good, and Poviss offers ample opportunities for Geralt to sell his gathered herbs and healing salves as it is rather lacking on several important plants, its climate being too cold for them to flourish.

They arrive at the town a couple of days earlier and they beeline to the closest inn, missing the variety of cooked meals made impossible on the road.

Jaskier plays for meagre pay and some food and Geralt entertains Ciri, letting her draw on parchment paper he purchased from a merchant at the edge of town and watching the performance.

Nothing is out of the ordinary and no bounty has found its way so far north and yet Geralt flinches suddenly feeling the heavy tug of chaos in the room. His eyes scan the merry drunk folk singing and dancing, trying to find the source of his unease. 

And there they are, in the opposite corner a man and two women, clad in armour, drinking beer from heavy looking tankards. The man snaps his eyes to Ciri and him, gaze piercing and a knowing smile adorning his lips, and Geralt has to employ all of his strength to not give in and approach the man; to not do as the tendrils of chaos prompt him to. 

‘We must go,’ he signals to Jaskier when the bard turns towards their table, ‘danger. Chaos.’

Jaskier nods simply and wraps up his song, excusing himself and promising to return later.

They leave through the back door silently and make their way to their horses only to find the man and the women waiting for them in front of the stables. 

“Curious,” the man smiles, long sharp teeth showing, “What aggressive chaos you possess,  _ phoenix. _ ” 

“Take Ciri and run,” Geralt whispers to his friend --never breaking eye-contact with the dangerous man-- and Jaskier does as he’s told. Thankfully, neither the man nor the women pursue the bard and Geralt’s daughter. “I mean no harm,” he says to the man. 

“I know. And neither do I. It’s just that it’s been a  _ very _ long time since I met one of your kind.” There’s something nostalgic in the man’s voice, something that makes him look far older than he appears. 

“My kind?” Geralt asks, “I’m human.”

The man hums and tilts his head slightly, “We both know this isn’t true. Even if you don’t know it… human is the furthest thing from what you are,  _ phoenix.” _

“Who --  _ what  _ are you?” Geralt’s voice breaks, the tug of chaos growing stronger and stronger by the minute. 

“Just a traveller,” the man smiles again, this time his teeth perfectly human, “Piece of advice from an old soul: be careful, alright? There are plenty who’d kill to possess you. Don’t die in front of  _ them _ .”

“I can’t--”

“I know, phoenix.” he turns his back and waves, “We’ll meet again, Geralt. I’m certain.”

Geralt swallows the knot on his throat, his heart hammering against his chest.  _ He never told the man his name.  _

_ Fuck.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm a day late because I wrote popstar Geralt yesterday for 4 consecutive hours (rip my eyes)   
> Anyhow! A bit of insight on what's happenin' we get today!   
> Hope ya liked it and hopefully see you tonight with the next chapteroni <3


	20. Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Jaskier obliterates Valdo

**Lost**

The Oxenfurt Academy of Arts is a large high-ceiling building, elaborately carved pillars adorning the halls. Marble floors, of the most excellent quality, tie in the picture of wealth and abundance. Geralt has been visiting the rich --both culturally and well, materially-- building of knowledge for a good part of five years now and still, the sight is a marvel to behold every time. 

Ciri is sitting on his shoulders, yanking his hair every time a work of art catches her attention. She’s still quite small, still exploring the world, still asking myriads of questions about everything and nothing. And Geralt answers the best he can, a smile and gentle tone always on his lips. 

They are currently leaving the Academy, as Jaskier’s lectures have come to an end for the day. And so are hundreds of others -- students and teachers alike-- populating the narrow hallways. It’s always so busy at this time; the sun not yet having dipped below the horizon. 

Geralt turns to face his friend, a mundane question about cooking duties and shopping lists making its way through his lips. He opens his mouth to speak when he catches a swift movement of hands behind the head of the poet and professor of music. 

Holding Ciri with a hand, he lunges forward to stop the assailant but he’s too late. 

A black mask falls slips off its owner, the strings that held it to place undone. 

“Aha! Suck it Pankratz!” a voice shouts triumphally behind them. The culprit, Geralt recognises as the professor of oral history, Valdo Marx. 

“Fucking hell,” Jaskier sighs, pinching his eyes shut, long fingers twitching with anger and exasperation. All eyes lock on the  _ interesting  _ scene unfolding. After all, Valdo’s and Jaskier’s rivalry is something of a legend in the school. Jaskier clicks his tongue and turns to face the shorter man, “Are you pleased, you talentless buffoon? Pray tell, Valdo, what did your little stunt accomplish exactly?” 

Valdo stares at Jaskier’s face for a long moment, his throat bobbing and eyes wide. 

“What did you expect Valdo? Do tell, I’m curious.” 

“Not this,” the man admits, smirking viciously. Geralt can attest with certainty, that he’s never seen a face more punchable in his life before. “Does the rectoress know?” his stupid smirk grows wider. 

“Are you fucking kidding me you little shit? Does she know, he says. Of course, she knows. As did her mother and grandfather before her. In case you failed to bloody notice, I’ve been teaching here for a good part of half a century. Oh, but wait, I forgot you didn’t study here Valdo, did you? No, you studied in Lan Exeter’s academy. What a sub-par choice, really.” 

A round of cheers and applause erupts from the bystanders, teachers and students alike and Jaskier bares his fangs grinning widely. 

Geralt snorts a laugh and pats his friend on the back, and Ciri joins the giggling even though he doubts she understands any of it. “You obliterated him,” he says. 

“Serves him right.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The academy of Oxenfurt knows they have a witcher teacher and they don't care. They are after all, above the petty politics of men  
> ;D   
> Valdo didn't know because he's a buffoon   
> hope ya liked this one <3   
> and see ya tomorrow!


	21. Feral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's those damn witch-hunters yall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning:   
> being restricted  
> witch-hunt bonfires  
> gore

**Feral**

Geralt wakes up pinned down, several strange hands pushing and grabbing at his limbs. Still bleary-eyed, he can't discern the features of the men and women holding him in place. He barely registers being bound by strong thick rope.

"Jas-" he manages to utter before a hand is on his mouth shushing him. He bites it and a yell erupts in the small inn room.

He hopes Jaskier managed to take Ciri and run far away from here. He hopes they're safe.

"It bit me!" A shrill voice yells, dripping disgust. "The witch bit me! Tell me I'm not gonna catch its witchiness."

"You can’t catch  _ this _ private,” an exasperated voice sighs, which Geralt places at a dark-haired man, “The eternal fire protects you.”

_ What a bunch of nonsense. _

“Not a witch,” Geralt hisses between clenched teeth before they can silence him again, “I’m a herbalist.”

“Right. And I’m the king of Redania,” the dark-haired man mocks. “Come on, privates, let’s bring this witch to divine justice, together with the other one.”

Geralt gulps audibly. _ Do they mean Jaskier? Or have they, maybe, captured Ciri?  _ In any case that’s a horrible and absolutely terrifying situation, he’s found himself into. And he has no idea how that happened either; ever since he claimed Ciri, he’s been extra careful not to ‘die’ in front of the kid. _ He doesn’t want to scar her for life. _

Geralt knows there’s no point in arguing with fanatics. No matter what he says nothing’s going to change their minds. In their eyes, he’s apparently a witch. And somehow that’s a bad thing to be.

They carry him to the centre of the small village Jaskier and he performed last night for meagre coin and a small semi-clean room in its only inn. Geralt is relieved to see that none of its inhabitants is there, the place deserted, probably out of fear they’ll get cursed or some other ridiculous superstition.

He’s less relieved and actually quite terrified to see his friend tied on a tall log, surrounded by kindling and firewood.

Jaskier looks ashen from fear, his eyes flitting right and left at the small army of fanatics shouting profanities at his face.

Geralt feels his stomach twist. He knows he can make it out of a bonfire alive and well, all limbs attached. But Jaskier? Jaskier who is deathly afraid of fire? Jaskier who while a witcher is still very much mortal?

Fuck.

_ Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. _

“Let him go!,” Geralt yells, “He’s human! Just a cursed human! I’m the witch and I swear on chaos I’ll see that you all fucking suffer!” he tries to bluff, putting his fiercest, scariest mask in place.

“Shut up, witch,” someone stabs him through the back, the metal of the blade pleasantly cold. He doesn’t even flinch and just glares and snarls and bares his teeth at the fanatics.

_ It does little to scare them, unfortunately. _

“Let my dad and uncle go!” Ciri emerges from an abandoned house, her green eyes scared and so so angry.

“A little witchling, how cute,” the dark-haired man coos and signals to a couple of goons to restrain her as well.

“I. Said. Let. Them.  **GO** !” Ciri screams and Geralt senses the tendrils of chaos leaving her mouth; a wave of raw power. The shout is a force unlike he’s ever seen, sends the fanatics flying left and right, impaling some of them on the very logs they set out to burn the witches, and others onto walls, spines and heads cracking beyond repair.

Geralt lands on a wooden wall himself, the impact enough to force all the air from his lungs, and drive the blade further in his spine. He’s alright though, as always. No pain, no bleeding wound to show the struggle.

The ropes have loosened a bit and by dislocating his arm he’s able to reach the knife that’s jabbed in his spine and cut the rest of his restraints.

Ciri has fallen unconscious to the ground and he rushes to her, making sure she’s alright. Her pulse is steady and her breathing soft and rhythmic and Geralt feels like he’s able to breathe again.

He heads for his friend next, who’s still tied on that damn log and shaking like a leaf. He unties him swiftly and helps him down.

  
  


They take Ciri and leave -- before she wakes up to see the carnage -- and never look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey look! I'm still a day behind!   
> but it's alright pshhh no big deal  
> it's not like I won't be able to catch up *glances at a million work appointments*   
> anyhow, hope yall liked this lil thing that has no explanation whatsoever.   
> and hopefully see ya tomorrow <3


	22. Wish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> talking about wishes and stuff

**Wish**

“So you’re telling me that a random man you met in a backwater tavern, told you you’re a phoenix?” Yennefer asks, her deft hands busy braiding Ciri’s hair. 

Geralt hums in response. It’s been a few months since that incident and he’s forgotten to tell Yennefer about it, until they stumbled upon her, in Kaedwen of all places, having turned a minor noble’s house into her own. 

“I’ve heard of those creatures,” Yennefer says, plucking a small kiss on Ciri’s crown when the girl turns unexpectedly to hug her. It warms Geralt’s heart to see his daughter and good friend getting along so well. “I’ll be honest with you, Geralt,” she continues, locking eyes with him, “I thought those creatures were a fable, a fairy-tale for children. And I don’t usually trust the word of strange magic men I meet in taverns.”

“Could it be true though?” Jaskier asks, “I mean a lot of folks think that demons aren’t real, but I know from experience that’s not the truth.”

“It could be true,” Yennefer responds seriously, “I won’t disregard this option completely. And it makes sense, really, given Geralt’s, painfully obvious, undying nature.” 

“I’ll look into it next winter,” Geralt says, “Vesemir might know something.”

“That’s a good plan,” Yennefer agrees, “and I’ll try to access Tissaia’s secret book collection. There’s bound to be something of use in at least one of those dusty old tomes.”

“Oh well,” Jaskier stretches his arms, a sigh of relief leaving his lips as the joints crack pleasantly, “It’s not like we’re in a hurry to find out. I’m curious Yennefer, did you find another djinn?”

She shoots him an incredulous look which makes Geralt snort. 

“Because it’s so easy to find a Djinn,” she deadpans, “Just yesterday I saw three vessels being sold in the marketplace.”

“No luck then?” Geralt asks, lifting Ciri on his lap when she slithers away from Yennefer’s. 

“I stopped looking for a djinn,” she responds and both Geralt and Jaskier cock an eyebrow, “I thought it’d solv- give me the choice I wanted all my life but I now know there are other ways to go about it,” she smiles sweetly, and then she sticks out her tongue mirroring Ciri. 

“I love you, Yen,” Ciri says between giggles, “What would you wish if you found a djinn? They fulfil wishes, do they not, papa?” she asks, and Geralt nods, “I’d wish for a pony!”

“I wouldn’t wish a thing, little one. Djinns are wretched creatures that twist your wishes to the worst possible outcome,” Yennefer smiles bitterly, “I wanted to use its power to become more powerful,” she admits, “to bring back something I gave away a long long time ago. But I no longer want that and nor does it matter.”

Geralt ponders on those words for a while, trying to find the meaning behind them, before he gives up. If Yennefer says it doesn’t matter, he’ll believe her. 

“For what it’s worth,” Jaskier says, “I’m glad Geralt absorbed the djinn that day near Kaer Morhen. You could have seriously hurt yourself, Yen.”

“I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh look! I'm two days behind now! hurray!   
> and why you may ask? because life happened. And by that I mean my brother dropped in for a two-day visit without noticed and we binged Taskmaster   
> Anyhow, I promise to finish this fic even if it takes me till the first week of November


	23. Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is having an existential crisis

It’s the dawn of his sixth year as a human-- no, that’s not quite true, he’s not human but an immortal being of myth, apparently. Geralt isn’t sure how he feels about this rather delicate matter. He always sort of thought that he’d go back to being a witcher eventually, but as the months and then the years went by… he’s not so sure anymore. 

On one hand, he doesn’t miss being chased out of villages, getting stifled after a tiring hunt. He doesn’t miss being treated like his forth jack shit as a being.  _ He doesn’t miss feeling like he’s the goddamn monster, everybody fears.  _ On the other hand, he’s painfully aware that he’s still not human. That he’ll never age. That he can’t die even if he at some point wishes to. That he’ll live and live and live, and that he’ll lose and lose and lose everyone and everything eventually. All that he holds dear. 

And that- That makes him feel more inhuman, more like a monster than he ever did as a witcher. 

With every incident that should have rendered him buried six feet under but it doesn’t. With every dead end on the search for his condition -- Yennefer informed him, there’s no knowledge about phoenix’s left in the world; it all went down with the demise of the elves-- he grows more restless, more tired. 

At least he has his friends for the next century or two. At least he has his lovely daughter for as long as her mortal life will allow her to stay by his side. 

He glances at her; she’s drawing with a brush and ink on a big parchment of paper, making a mess of Vesemir’s study. She looks so happy, so aloof. His heart pains with the what-ifs and the eventuality of loss. 

“Hey,” Jaskier ruffles Geralt’s with a big hand, “What are you sighing for?”

He’s sighing? He never realised. Geralt guesses he’s not as good as he once were at hiding his emotions. So he shrugs in response and sighs again. Fuck. 

“Come on Gerry, talk to me,” Jaskier moves to sit on the sofa next to him. 

“I don’t know,” he pauses briefly, trying to set his unruly swirling thoughts in place, “I feel- I worry about the future I guess.”

“What has you so worried? We’ve had a good calm year, didn’t we? Ciri is in good health and we are too. All your brothers are fine. Yennefer is more than fine herself…” 

“It was a good year,” he agrees, “But how many years do I have left with you all? How many before you-” he stops himself, tears welling treacherously in his eyes. 

“ _ Geralt _ ,” Jaskier scolds, his eyes gentle, “We’ll live for a looooong time. I can guarantee you that.”

“Will you though?” a peal of sad, desperate laughter escapes his throat. “I will outlive everyone.  _ Everyone,  _ Jaskier. And then I’ll be alone. A monster alone in this world.”

“ _ You _ , are not a monster. You can never be a monster. Geralt, you’re too kind, too good of a man. And, my friend, you don’t know what the future holds for any of us. We’re here now, we are alright, and that’s what matters. Right?”

He doesn’t have a good answer to this question. He knows it can only be destructive to think so negatively, but he can’t promise that he’ll be able to stop. As long as his condition persists, the thoughts will find a way to hole up in his brain, to corrupt and rot all that is joyful and nice. He may be able to stop them sometimes, he might be able to freeze them, hide them, far in the deepest corners of his mind, but he knows they’ll eventually resurface. That’s why he hums as a response. He hums and he clenches his friend’s hand tight within his own. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh hey! this fic is back even though october is over   
> I'll finish it slowly slowly, that I can assure you 
> 
> thanks for reading and hope you enjoyed it <3


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